To hate, to hate
by Machinesister
Summary: Maedhros had always hated Fingon. But now, how can he despise someone who saved his life? Slash, MaeFin. First Silm multichap.
1. Fingon

Disclaimer: Morehelka LTD disclaims any liability, injury, theft, accident or death that may be caused by the reading of this fanfiction. All blame goes to the Tolkien Estate.

(This chapter has been edited in typos and in POV - thank you, Tehta!)

AN: I am well aware that this fic is not entirely consistent with canon. I'm playing with the idea that elves do mature more slowly than humans do; perhaps exaggerating it. Maedhros is twelve(and quite childish here), Maglor about eight, and Celegorm five. There are many inconsistencies in canon - for example, Maedhros and Fingon were friends back in Valinor. I'm bending it a little - or perhaps a lot, judging from your opinion.

Thank you MarlaLP and Tehta for telling me Fingolfin's Quenya name - it's muchly appreciated )

1. Fingon

It all started, queer enough, with the begetting of Nolofinwe's eldest son. Now Maedhros was far from the coming of age, an elfling of the House of Feanor, and quite an attention-loving little elfling at that.

Perhaps it was this. Or perhaps it was because elves all around him started to develop a strange magnetic attraction to the House of Fingolfin these days, always paying visits, as a jealous Maedhros observed, and almost always bringing gifts of gold, jewels and whatnot, and fawning upon Anarie's rounded belly.

Maedhros was particularly incensed by their strange 'prophetic' predictions. During these instances, he would sit in his room and sulk, dwelling on the past, when everyone would crowd around him and rant enthusiastically about some kind of glorious deed that he would accomplish in his later years, most of them involving large armies, chivalrous battles, and a lot of very fine jewellery.

And yes, he rather enjoyed these stories. He would put of a scowl and sniff, as though not believing the person who told him this, but in his heart he would be thinking about what wonderful banner he would bear in battle, and fantasizing about what he was going to do with his myriad of treasure.

So today, we find him in his room again, brooding, sulking, and being generally disagreeable.

"M-Maitimo."A tiny voice reminded him that he still existed in the present world, however grudgingly.

Now...who could it be?

"Maitimo?"

"What?" snapped Maedhros, irritated.

"Will you play with me?" It was Maglor, wide, innocent grey eyes fixed on him pleadingly.

Maedhros did not want to spend his entire afternoon playing with Maglor and his inventory of childish games. He wanted to be alone, to blanket himself in as much self-pity that he was able.

"No. Go play with Tyelkormo or something. I'm busy." said Maedhros shortly, assuming all his authority as the eldest brother.

Maglor seemed close to tears. "But...but...Turko is too little...he is no fun..."

The presence of tears meant only one thing - MOM. Maedhros inwardly groaned and told himself that this sucked.

"Okay, fine. What do you want to play?"

0

It was many, many times worse than what he had imagined. Apparently, Makalaure's idea of "playing" did not involve activities such as hunting, catching animals or constructing models, but rather, excited by the recent events, a sort of "visiting surprise" game that entailed walking to every family down the street and visiting them for a short while. The climax, said Maglor, would be at the end of the street, where Nolofinwe's house was. This would give them an opportunity perhaps to sneak a peek at Anarie, who held the baby.

Maglor loved babies. Maedhros, on the other hand, did not. As they started on their way to the first house, his mind already started to drift. He wondered what they were going to name the baby. Judging from the knowing glances that Fingolfin and his wife exchanged upon each successive visit, probably "doer of great deeds", or "he who arises in might", or some other equally annoying, heroic crap.

Maedhros secretly thought that his own parents were not particularly adept at naming their children. Kanafinwe. Valar. Maglor didn't have a voice enough to frighten a mosquito. The irony of it was ridiculous.

He did not have eyes at the back of his head, so he rolled the ones in front instead.

Looking unenthusiastically at Maglor greeting the elf-woman at the door cheerfully, he wondered why Quendi were not able to perish.

As they moved further down the road, the sense of doom magnified. He considered dashing away at the last moment, but could not bring himself to wipe the happy smile off his little brother's face.

The rapid knock that pervaded his ears derailed his train of thought and forced him to concentrate on the present.

"Who's there?" an elaborately robed Fingolfin opened the door gracefully, producing a gust of wind that made Maedhros shiver.

"Good afternoon, uncle," said Maglor politely, bowing. "We were just dropping by for a little visit, to -" Maedhros wondered why he did so, until, looking up, he found himself under the piercing, sea-grey eyes bent unblinkingly on his own. It made him feel strange; awkward and very uncomfortable, almost as though he was trespassing on his uncle's domain. He narrowed his eyes in defiance.

"I see." said Fingolfin curtly, breaking away from the gaze, now eyeing the brothers in general. "I hope that you two will be staying for tea, perhaps?"

The next thing Maedhros was aware of, was a cool, long fingered hand that wrapped itself around his heated ones and dragged him back to his house. His legs obeyed without further ado, but the top half of his body frantically bent down to scoop up his hideously inconvenient robes.

He laughed nervously when they had reached the door of their house. "Whatever is the matter, Kano? Do you think that uncle will serve up poisoned tea?"

Maglor, however, did not smile. He looked disquieted, horribly pale cheeks against long black hair.

"Uncle...he does not seem to like you very much," he concluded, looking up to his brother, who was taller than him by a full head.

"No, he does not," agreed Maedhros, "but it should not concern us. Atar always said that we should not meddle too deeply in family affairs."

"But...the way he looked at you...almost like he was - he was - I don't know." Maglor gave up, and instead settled with toying with the golden hems of his robes.

"Do not worry yourself, Kano." Maedhros said, although he was also unsettled by what had happened earlier.

"Thank you for playing with me, Maitimo," said Maglor, going inside.

"Do not mention it," replied Maedhros automatically. He watched the sun set behind his uncle's house, and wondered if it was a sign.

0

TBC

Comments, as well as any kind of criticism, as well as hopeless compliments (if, you were, or are, drunk), all greatly appreciated.


	2. Turgon

AN: Yes, according to my out-of-canon fic, it's weird that Maedhros, at his age, still plays battle games...in this fic, Quendi can speak and walk quicker than mortals, but mature slower...whoops. I'm trying to use Quenya names as much as I am able, so Arelde is Aredhel. And I'm going to exclude Argon, because he is not mentioned in the Silm.

2. Turgon

Maedhros had one consolation prize for the recent turn of events. He was desperate to cling to this for as long as possible.

Findekano. Hair-commander. This name, a haphazard jumble of word components, made no sense whatsoever, and sounded positively disgusting.

The newborn had been completely hairless. Maedhros started to think that his family - extended or not - was an extremely ironic bunch. At any rate, he did not find it remotely amusing except for this instance.

It did not help that, despite the distance that the House of Feanor kept with the House of Fingolfin, all the elflings in the entire vicinity would gather about to play in the large, grassy plain in the middle of Valinor.

Fingon would be among them, and, to Maedhros' great displeasure, was unusually popular in the battle games, even at the tender age of seven. The only way he could keep his sanity in these examples was taunting him with chants of "Hairy! Hairy!", and spurring his other playmates to do the same. Usually, he would gather quite a fine crowd out of his lead instead of pure malevolence, and it would all end with little Fingon in tears and leaving much earlier than tea-time.

At about this time, Maedhros heard of a new arrival, this time also from his creepy uncle. According to much spying on Maglor's part, and general gossip, it was to be another son. Even his name was predetermined - Turgon. Maedhros scoffed at this - knowing his family's peculiar knack for untimely irony, the child would probably be thicker than lembas dough.

He did not know why he was still more incensed by Fingon's birth - perhaps it was because Fingon was predestined to have the same qualities. Or because he saw him as a rival, both in terms of popularity and general likeability.

Maedhros watched the days go by; watched Turgon grow steadily with the remote disinterest of a bystander.

Turgon possessed the same jet black locks of short hair as his brother. Although very good at fighting, instead of participating in the war games, as was the other children's wont, he would stand on a side and think of battle strategies for his army that proved both effective and deadly.

For some or other odd reason, Maedhros was no more irritated by Turgon than he was from Fingon, despite the fact that, although half his age, Turgon was almost as tall as him. He would not scowl half as much when he came across Turgon in the streets, as opposed to his encounters with Fingon, in which he deliberately turned around and walked the other way.

Fingon, in his turn, kept away from Maedhros as much as possible. Except, inevitably on the playground.

Maedhros' dislike for hair-boy heightened every time he saw him. Apart from this, he also harboured an intense hatred for Fingolfin, but that was more than understandable.

A while later, he noticed that Fingon and Turgon became subtly secretive - if it wasn't his imagination, then they were indeed whispering in each other's ears a lot more than usual. He wasn't sure - he had been too occupied with the rest of his new brothers to pay any real attention to it.

The reason for this was soon clear: one day, as Maedhros was captain of his army in the battle games, he suddenly noticed a pale, thin girl in pure white, long hair as dark as his brother's, standing amongst the crowd of candidates. She seemed extremely disgruntled, unimpressed or just plain bored. Nevertheless, she was a girl - it was extremely out of place, and her presence both disturbed and baffled Maedhros.

He sought a neighbouring arm to nudge. "Who is she?" he asked his vice-captain, pointing at the girl.

"You mean Arelde?" said his vice captain. "Oh, do not dwell on it. I expect that she is tagging along with her brothers in the hope of acquiring a friend. I doubt she will be in the game, at any rate."

This, however, bothered Maedhros even more. Her brothers? The only family he knew of with brothers (besides his) was that of Fingolfin's. And with Fingon and Turgon and all that secrecy...

It was Turgon's turn to be the captain. As the crowd of aspiring warriors dwindled, he could see Arelde much clearly. He wondered why she was there. Could it be that - ?

Now, the captains were almost finished picking their army. There were only two children left. One was Arelde.

The other was Maglor. Maedhros knew that Maglor was not a bad warrior at all; he had just failed to see him until now. So, taking a deep breath, he said loudly, "Maglor."

Maglor looked grateful at being chosen, he walked quickly to Maedhros' side. Arelde now stood alone. Turgon seemed to be deep in thought. Maedhros watched Turgon; wondering if he was going to take Arelde, or if he was going to leave her in fear of ruining his battle strategies.The other children watched her, some with raised eyebrows, others scoffing. Arelde was not daunted, nor did she wait until she was chosen. Narrowing her young, childlike eyes, she said clearly, "I think I shall take my brother's side, then." and strode to Turgon.

There were some exclamations of surprise, but that was all. As the teams prepared to strike, Maedhros thought about how he was going to defeat Turgon's team.

0

The battlefield was nearly emptied of both Maedhros and Turgon's warriors - the majority of them were standing on the sidelines, calling it quits after they dropped their weapons. Turgon looked frustrated. Maedhros hid his scowl. Both sides now had three more fighters to go.

...two more.

...one more. He knotted his eyebrows. Maglor? Arelde?

She wielded her little blunted iron sword skilfully - Maedhros saw that she was attacking his brother, who was matching her as well as he could. Still, he did not sink his hopes yet; Arelde, her endurance aside, could not possibly defeat Maglor, could she?

Could she?

But it was astonishing how Arelde could have made it this far. Every stroke of her sword mimicked Maglor's; they were the trademarks of Finwe's descendants.

Maedhros dared himself to guess what the losers on the sidelines were thinking, judging from their faces paralyzed with rapt attention - a little girl, no more than five, still standing against Captain Maedhros' brother? And she was gaining the upper hand...

"You win." Maglor suddenly turned his back on her, dropping his sword and trailing forlornly to the sidelines. Arelde smirked.

"I win," said Turgon, looking extremely pleased as his team cheered. Arelde still held her sword.

"Hold on a minute!" said someone from Maedhros' dejected team, running forward to Arelde. "That's my sword!"

"No it is not!" said Arelde defiantly, "It's mine!"

The boy from Maedhros' team started to get angry. "It is mine! It even has my name on it!" he jabbed an accusing finger at the hilt of the sword, where his name was engraved.

"See?" he said, "Eh-te-li-on. It is mine."

Turgon's cheering crowd hushed. Arelde bit her lip, colour rising in her cheeks. She knew what this meant - if you dropped your weapon, you had to go to the sidelines. Possessing someone else's sword was illegal.

"So..." began Maedhros, not bothering to hide the excitement in his voice. "That means..."

"She cheated!" shouted a random voice from the crowd.

"We win!" shouted another. Maedhros' team spontaneously burst into song, cheering for the unexpected victory. Turgon stood dumbstruck. His sad gaze turned to his sister, who looked away.

The thought occurred to him that this was the perfect opportunity to show just how much he disliked Fingon, Turgon and their little sister. He wondered if he was going to regret it afterwards, but the words were out his mouth before he could stop himself.

"You're all cowards!" he yelled after their retreating backs. Turgon looked behind his shoulder coldly, then walked on.

"What's the matter? Sore loser?"

"Ignore him," said Fingon calmly, slinging a comforting arm around his little brother and sister and walking on.

"Cheaters!"

Maedhros saw Turgon twitch slightly with the desire to turn around, but didn't.

By this time, the other elflings were leaving as well, leaving Maedhros, still shouting despite his lack of audience. He persisted because stopping would make him feel more awkward than if he did not.

"Come on, Maitimo, do not waste your voice on them. It was an empty victory; be content with it." Maglor put his hand on Maedhros' shoulder, meaning to walk him home, but Maedhros shrugged it off.

"Since when did you care about me?" he spat, although he did not mean it; he just felt incredibly bitter.

Maglor's large eyes filled with tears again, Maedhros did not understand why his brother always had to be so sensitive.

"Since I was born, Nelyafinwe," he whispered as he shook his head sadly, then traipsed in front of him without looking back.

0

TBC

Comments, criticism, suggestions, ideas all muchly appreciated : )


	3. Leaving Home

3. Leaving home

AN: This chapter is saturated with Feanorian bickering. You have been warned. I wonder how long I will keep this little thread of canon up. Oh dear, it looks as though it's snapping.

Practice-ficcing is as such. Tedious, tedious process.

Maedhros had expected his father to snap someday. The preceding signs were already there - the brooding, the cold, condescending manner in which he spoke, the overly long hours spent in the forge - until he remembered that Feanaro had always behaved like that.

But when he heard Feanaro ranting angrily to the masses outside their gloriously exaggerated black crystal doors - the same door that Maedhros' grandfather was murdered in front of - his suspicions were justified. After quickly dressing himself with a pair of his most elegant robes (to refrain from detracting from his already heavily marred public image), he stepped briskly to the entrance hall and used his arms to thrust open the heavy doors, which swung out - barely missing his father's head. The air that rushed in was black and cool, even if Maedhros knew that it was early morning. Feanor, however, did not seem to notice. His loud, unwavering voice confirmed this.

" - SHALL WE MOURN HERE DEEDLESS FOR EVER, A SHADOW FOLK, MIST-HAUNTING, DROPPING VAIN TEARS IN THE THANKLESS SEA? OR SHALL WE RETURN TO -"

SLAM! Maedhros slammed the door shut, then barred the inside with his back, panting hard. No, he could not dismiss this as another of Feanaro's scheduled monthly rants. This time, the speech seemed unequalled in vehemence. It did not resemble whatsoever the lecture about the wonders of common earth, the many disguises of shore sand, or the more ludicrous ones involving elven hair. Also, it did not center on some specific underrated substance.

He pressed his pointed ears against the smooth crystal, enough to blunt out the sound so that it became easier to register.

" - where a free people might walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city!"

His lips drew in a breath. Was this perhaps some twisted dream, spun by Melkor in his evil might? Such things were not impossible. Or was this reality, as cold as the surface his fingers clutched at in order to find some sanity?

...but then...

...did Melkor really know how Maedhros prepared his 'special' lembas? If he had the means to obtain that sort of information...what else could he know?

Maedhros shivered, wishing that it was because of the chilling air.

He removed his ear, in time to see the pale, slender form of Makalaure, moving across the hall with unrivalled grace. His dark green robes trailed behind him, as smooth as moving water.

"Good morning, Maitimo," he said as he approached Maedhros. "What is Atar on about this time?"

Shame, thought Maedhros, for Maglor to think that this was a little thing. Shame indeed!

His thoughts reflected in his slate grey eyes. They flashed dangerously.

"Do you know what he is talking about?" he fumed, thrusting his face up to his brothers, so that Maglor staggered backwards.

Maglor was alarmed at this abruptness. "N-no," he stuttered. Maedhros wondered if his little brother only said this out of courtesy. Impulse made him want to snap back at him, to show him how serious the matter at hand was. But something stopped him, and perhaps for the better.

"Look. I don't know what Atar is talking about, but it seems to have something to do with -"

"Ai! What's going -"

"Shhhh!" Maedhros looked up. Presently, Maglor had gripped a rather startled Caranthir and was marching him towards the front door.

"Listen!" he hissed with uncharacteristic heatedness. Caranthir shot him a confused and slightly infuriated glance before obeying Maglor's instructions. His expression quickly turned from puzzled to mildly amused.

"Sounds like someone forgot to clean Finwe from the steps, does it not?" he smirked, straightening up. "Or is it because there's still no light after nine consecutive weeks of darkness?"

Maedhros could not believe his own eyes. He opened his mouth to protest before he was intercepted by an indignant Maglor who was jabbing pointedly at Caranthir's chest.

"If you would like to know, it was I who spent six hours scouring the place," he said, outraged, "as opposed to dear Morifinwe here, little brother who puts his -"

" – puts his unwashed socks in a place that a rat could only dream of," scoffed Celegorm softly from the other end of the hall. He stepped towards the bickering handful of brothers, and ran a hand down the velvet of his garments. Caranthir's eyes narrowed.

"Don't," he said, "don't you dare -"

"ENOUGH!" yelled Maedhros. His audience were shaken enough to obey this at once. Maedhros, at this age, was famed for his ability to witness and analyze his own actions, and at present he had a shocking notion that he looked extremely stupid. He breathed in.

"See here," he said, closing his eyes. "This is no time to argue about dirty laundry and household chores. Our dear father is not suffering from episodes of madness or folly. Or be it so, but it is not from the usual reasons. He clearly has some intention - " he stopped, and tried to say the last part of his speech with a calm voice, " - to leave...Valinor."

The silence made Maedhros half wish that he had not brought up the matter at all. Maglor blinked.

"What?"

Celegorm raised a slim eyebrow, eyes still on the ground.

Caranthir laughed nervously, shaking his head. "He's fucking crazy. Where the hell does he think we're going to go? Mandos, perhaps?"

"That was not a very amusing joke," muttered Celegorm.

"What joke?"

"Oooh, more people from the peanut gallery," said Caranthir, rolling his eyes. Sure enough, it was Curufin who spoke. Curufin, and the twins.

"What joke," repeated Curufin.

"Never you mind," said Maglor. "It was not an amusing one, at any rate."

"What is Atar talking about?" one of the twins - Maedhros guessed that it was Pityafinwe - tilted his head. It was remarkable how, even though the twins had almost reached maturity, they still seemed younger than they really were.

Maedhros blamed their voices, but now they were silent.

...so, who was going to break the news this time? Not Maedhros dearest. He was not up to repeating those lines again. Perhaps Makalaure would like to do so. He tried hinting this to him by shooting him a meaningful glance.

This was met with more eyebrow raising from the brother in question.

"If this silence means no one will tell me, then I shall just have to clarify the matter for myself," said Pityafinwe, reaching for the door while shifting aside for Telufinwe as well.

Maedhros watched them dispassionately and thought about how strange these two youngest twins looked together. So alike, both in mood and face. And yet it was only when Pitya began referring to himself as a singular "I" rather than a "we" - the sort of brotherly legion formed with Telufinwe - that the strangeness manifested itself. Would he be able to distinguish them, if one day they were forced apart? Such questions were difficult to answer.

He felt the familiar rush of cold wind on his face, but did not bother to look in its direction. The hollow echo of open space sounded in his ears - Feanaro was no longer ranting. Instead, the air seemed to be filled with low murmurs. Saying what, Maedhros did not know.

Curiosity finally prompted him to throw a glance at what happened outside. The torches outside filled the dark with an array of pin-sized colours.

"What happened?" whispered Curufin. Maedhros heard it and felt his regret when the question, quiet though it was, succeeded in making his father turn around to eye his sons with a sort of bitter distate that was mingled with intagible satifaction.

"Pityafinwe," he said. "Bring me the swords."

"Yes, father." Amrod bowed and managed a fair effort to keep his face void of confusion before disappearing out the back door of the entrance hall.

It seemed as though, with the departure of one of the brothers, the atmosphere froze. Not a single movement was made, by anyone, until Amrod retured - bearing seven differently adorned swords.

"Wield one," commanded Feanaro shortly. Maglor's lips parted slightly with surprise.

Maedhros could guess his thoughts; his own had echoed them.

Why swords?

It was not until his father spoke to the heavens that he had an idea of what was happening.

An oath, to forsake the Valar.

He could do nothing but lift his sword and swear it.

It was this time when he thought he sensed Fingon was in the crowd, watching him.

His gaze fell on his blade. It shone, the colour of blood in the flickering glows of lit torches; as violently red as the sunset on the day he crossed his uncle; as subtly beautiful as a lock of his fiery hair.

Thank you for reading! As usual, any type of feedback is greatly appreciated and encouraged.


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